


false perception

by teaofpeach



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fluff, Intimidation, No use of y/n, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Verbal Humiliation, [at the end if you squint], boba's mean and you ride his thigh that's it that's the fic, surprised that's not already a tag, thigh riding, this is. a thigh riding fic y'all, yeah there's a little of that too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27403825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaofpeach/pseuds/teaofpeach
Summary: Then his hand settles on your waist, bringing you back to the present. He squeezes gently, lingering in the soft give of your flesh. You blink. There’s an understanding lying just beyond your grasp, insight lying at the back of your throat, on the tip of your tongue.What is he doing?And then it strikes you, smack in the face. You feel soslow.———you find yourself between a rock and a hard place. boba, oh-so generous as he is, helps you out.as if he didn't put you in this situation to begin with.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 175





	false perception

**Author's Note:**

> see........ don't ask me what this is. i was listening to some boba voicelines from the battlefront game and..... w h e w 
> 
> suddenly this wip got finished.
> 
> drop some kudos and comments if you liked! or you know, if you didn't. :)

“Is this what you wanted?”

Boba snarls in your ear, a harsh, modulated burst of static. A jolt of panic strikes you in the gut. It’s in moments like these that you realise how small you truly are compared to him, for all your bluster. The bounty hunter has you pinned between the frigid durasteel wall and his own solid frame, one thigh wedged between your legs. Your toes barely graze the floor.

“You can’t listen. You’re _incapable_ of it.”

You don’t say a word, keeping your gaze firmly pinned to the ground, or some non-existent smudge on his breastplate, or the visible, frantic rise and fall of your chest as you struggle to maintain composure. Your thighs are already beginning to tremble minutely, the strain of bearing your weight becoming too much for too long.

“Look at me.” You don’t move your head. _“Look at me.”_

You register the command, yes, but it’s like you’re underwater. Your fight-or-flight response muddles in your brain as you stand there, dazed. _This… This is bad._ You’ve been relying on his apparent tolerance of you for too long, he’s finally going to snap, you’ve gone too far, you’re in over your head—

It seems you’re too slow for Boba’s liking. His arm darts up suddenly to clutch your jaw, pressing your face between his gloved fingers just hard enough to send a spark of _something_ racing up your spine. Not quite fear, not quite arousal. Anticipation, maybe. On both sides of the spectrum. 

Doesn’t change the fact that there’s a steady ache growing between your legs, a desperate, baser urge to just rut and rut and _rut_ on something till you reach your peak. Your cheeks shouldn’t feel this warm.

His hand is big, reaching across the expanse of your face without worry. He turns your head upward, keeping your eyes on the visor.

“That’s better,” Boba rasps dispassionately. His voice, his hands, his force. There must be something wrong with you, to find this as arousing as you do. For it to bring a familiar wetness pooling in your core. 

You pray he doesn’t notice. But of course, you’re never that lucky.

“You like this,” he says, that faint, familiar accent lilting the statement. It’s a lost cause, you _know_ that, but you rush to deny it. On impulse, you try to shake your head. You barely nudge his vice grip. Parts of your jaw are going numb.

“No— No, Boba, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

The hand on your face tightens dangerously, and you freeze. “ _Don’t_ lie to me, girl.”

The helmet studies you for a moment. Cold, unfeeling steel, just watching you stay as still as you can, quivering in his grip, trying to resist finding purchase against his thigh. 

Finally, he lets go. You can’t hold back the sigh of relief, leaning back against the wall as blood finally returns to your cheeks. He doesn’t back away though, so you’re still stuck. “I’m— I’m sorry, Boba—”

“Not what I asked.”

Something in his voice makes you shrink. Impatience, perhaps. Or maybe the very idea of his disapproval, his disappointment, is enough to send something plummeting in your chest. There is nowhere to hide from his sharp gaze and sharper bite. Eventually, you find your voice, deciding to play along. If only to escape the snapping jaws in your face. “I do.”

“You _what?_ Louder.”

Your cheeks burn at the order. You choke out what he wants to hear, what you both know to be true. “I like it. I like— I like this.”

The helmet cocks to the side condescendingly. “Very _good,_ ” Boba croons, mockery dripping from every syllable. Doesn’t stop your heart from leaping at the praise, though.

He leans forward suddenly, and now it’s not just his thigh pressed against you. It’s his whole torso, too. Like this, he blocks out everything else in your line of sight. Just Boba. Only Boba. 

You eyes roam over the helmet worriedly, a hint of alarm entering your face as you wonder what he’s doing. For a brief second, your mind is overwhelmed with the reminder that he’s a trained _killer,_ he could snap you in half. And while you’re reasonably sure he won’t, you can’t tell if remorse would even register. If he did kill you, that is.

You were never so morbid before you met him.

Then his hand settles on your waist, bringing you back to the present. He squeezes gently, lingering in the soft give of your flesh. You blink. There’s an understanding lying just beyond your grasp, insight lying at the back of your throat, on the tip of your tongue. _What is he doing?_

And then it strikes you, smack in the face. You feel so _slow._

The silent action is meant to be comforting. Reassuring. Like you’re some kind of petrified animal caught in a trap, being petted to docility by the very hunter who ensnared you in the first place. It must say something miserable about you that it actually starts to work.

All that gets thrown out the window, though, when Boba starts shifting his thigh. The one between your _legs._

A startled noise escapes your lips as slow, rolling waves of pleasure begin to emanate from your cunt. Boba works his leg steadily, rolling it just hard enough to brush your clit in that way you crave. He knows it. Your lips part, and a soft moan puffs into the air as your head tilts back to rest on the wall.

“Yeah, you _do_ like this, don’t you?”

Your noises get stronger in lieu of a reply. You twitch your hips into his thigh messily, not quite meeting the thrusts but certainly not rejecting them either. A shudder racks through your frame. Fuck, it feels good.

Your core feels molten; sweet, sweet honey dripping between your legs and sticking to the fabric of your trousers. It’s mortifying, just how easily he can get you writhing for him. Some harsh words and rough holds and you’re halfway to coming already.

Or you would be, if Boba’s leg didn’t stop abruptly.

Your breathing hitches at the injustice. “What— No, Boba—”

_“No?”_

Your stomach drops. Oh, this— this is dangerous. 

Have you crossed a line? You can never tell, can never keep up with how often he shifts the boundary, a tide washing away the line in the sand before a new one is drawn up twice as deep. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation, here.”

Slowly, like the most viscous, bitter poison you could imagine, a gloved hand comes to rest on your throat. Boba doesn’t squeeze, not yet. Barely any pressure at all. Just enough for you to feel your pulse beating against worn leather, worriedly fluttering in his hold.

You can see the wide whites of your eyes reflected back at you. Not panicked this time. It’s something else.

“You want to come, you do it yourself,” he grounds out, and the visor tilts downward deliberately, staring between your legs.

Oh. 

He’s serious. Your face falls, deflating into his outstretched palm. _Well, when is he not_. But still, you expected something… more? Why, you have no idea. It’s your mistake. You release a shaky breath, swallowing thickly and feeling your throat bob in his hand.

“Go on, girl.” Boba gestures his head at the apex of your thighs, arched on either side of his own. You realise how tightly you’re clenching his thigh, eager to get as close you can.

A split-second of hesitation. Will you do this? Play right into his hands?

You start to grind. 

Little rotations at first. Rolling your hips down and around, getting comfortable on the stiff, smooth beskar of his cuisse. Boba’s wearing a different flight suit today. No pocket-compartments on the thighs, just armour strapped over cloth. Maker, he didn’t even remove his _armour_. How pathetic does that make you, willing to jump for whatever scraps he throws your way?

Your back is held straight, courtesy of the hand at your neck, but you manage to fall into a rhythm. Taking what pleasure you can, bucking back and forth to tease your clit just _so._

And then it’s easy to get lost in the motions, to let yourself fall slack just so he can hold you up against the wall and watch. And he _is_ watching — you can tell even as your eyes drift shut and your lips part, a crease forming between your brows as you rut yourself on his leg — Boba’s gaze doesn’t leave you for a second. You’re not sure how you know. Maybe it’s the stillness of the helm, or the taut, tense line of his shoulders giving away his laser-focus.

But he’s watching, and the thought makes you shudder.

“Getting close, girlie,” Boba says, and there’s something in his tone that’s half-amused, half-warning. He’s right, too. That bubble in your core is only growing with every jagged movement. Maker, his hand on your throat isn’t helping the tension. Neither is that name.

_Girlie._

It’s barely anything, no more than a slight inflection to the impartial _girl_ you’re usually reduced to. It’s nothing. Yet there is a part of you — hopelessly lonely, naive, _lovestruck_ — that can imagine affection there. In the curl of his lip, in the modulated baritone. Boba doesn’t call anyone else that,not that you know of. 

Something in your chest jolts. So does something in your core. You’re helpless, putting on a show for him because he _demands_ it, and the idea of refusal could never cross your mind. You feel indecent, exposed. Like he’s using you as a plaything, a warm body that’s his to control and his to fuck. 

You cry out softly, the thought shooting sparks up from between your legs, and there’s a noise behind the helmet. A light hiss, a sharp inhale he couldn’t suppress. Like the hull doors lowering, depressurising and opening up to reveal precious, precious cargo.

It has your inner walls fluttering around nothing, and you wish he would fill them. Anything, any way he’d like. Just to get you there, just for him.

Your frantic breaths align with your hips, getting faster, and faster, and faster, until—

The band snaps, sending your body into spasms. You can’t hear anything, can’t feel anything but that tidal wave of _pleasure_ from your lower belly. You make a noise, something choked and unconscious and _intense_ , if not loud, only vaguely registering it from the way your throat vibrates in Boba’s hand. 

Oh, it’s _glorious,_ the way you tense up, legs pressing inwards to trap his leg even tighter, pressing the hard steel up into your crotch to make it last longer. 

Then gently, gradually, you’re drifting back into orbit. As you come down from your high, sight and hearing slowly returning, you realise—

You never stopped moving your hips.

Even now, you’re fidgeting, tiny aftershocks passing through you, shaking your frame. It works as a cycle; the small jolts make you tremble, rubbing you up against Boba’s leg, feeding into that greedy, lascivious feeling into your cunt and making you tremble all over again.

Silence. Just for a beat, as you catch your breath. “Fuck,” Boba breathes, and as if _that_ rare little crack in composure wasn’t enough, something draws your attention. 

He’s palming his crotch with the hand not resting against your neck; a distinct, thick bulge strains against his trousers. Your mouth waters. Isn’t that telling?

It’s reassuring, though. The fact that Boba’s apparently as turned on by this as you are. It registers faintly that he’s removed his codpiece. Planning ahead, as usual. You’re not sure if that spells good things for you.

But there’s no time to ponder on it. The gloved hand on your throat withdraws, and Boba plants both hands on your upper arms before stepping back, extracting his thigh from between your own. There’s a small, wet sound at the separation; a broad streak glistens on his cuisses in the cold light of the ship’s hold. You gasp as your knees buckle, but his hold doesn’t flinch. 

“Easy,” he says simply, bearing your weight without difficulty. As is the way of your galaxy; a constant, charted course that doesn’t dare falter in its own gravity. You feel his thumb rub back and forth over the skin above your elbow. 

Is the leather soft, or are you just too dazed to feel it for what it is? 

“You with me?”

The question is sharp, of course, and you lift your gaze to the visor. Ever cold, ever unfeeling. You nod, strangely at ease. “Yeah— Yeah, I am.”

“Good.” 

And it’s the strangest thing, you’d never believe it if he wasn’t right in front of you, but— 

All of a sudden there’s a hand cupping your cheek. 

Which is fine _,_ all well and good. Completely fine. Except—

It’s his. It’s _him_. Boba’s holding your face and stroking his thumb through the tears that squeezed out sometime earlier without your knowledge. Not waterworks so much as vapour, the thinnest film of moisture spreading across the heated skin underneath your eyes. Across familiar, off-white bantha leather, too.

“Good?” you echo. You’re afraid to say anything else, worried he’ll snap out of whatever calm, near _content_ mood he’s drifted into, and go back to the snarling hunter circling the trap.

But there is a voice in the back of your head reminding you of something. Something important, one of the few things you’ve gleaned from under the armour, the one _beneath_ the beskar.

_Boba Fett does not drift._

Wherever he goes, he intends to be. No other force propelling him but himself and the _Slave I’s_ roaring engines.

Yet the thumb under your cheek remains. 

Boba tilts his head, and you tuck the sight away for later. “Yes. You did well, girlie.”

It certainly feels that way. 

**Author's Note:**

> again, no idea what this is.
> 
> ———
> 
> i'm bopping around on [tumblr](https://teaofpeach.tumblr.com/), if you want to check that out. it's 18+ only, so if you pass, come scream at me.
> 
> drop some comments/kudos below! thanks for reading.


End file.
